Miss Morrison sank into a chair and revealed the tint of herlettuce-green petticoat beneath her olive-green frock.

"I'm making you cross with me," she said regretfully. "Please don'tdislike me at the outset. You see, out in California we're not so up anddown as you are here. If you were used to spending your days in theshade of yellow walls, with your choice of hammocks, and with nothing todo but feed the parrot and play the piano, why, I guess you'd--"

She broke off and stared about her.

"Why, there isn't any piano!" she cried. "Do you mean Honora has nopiano?"

"What would be the use? She doesn't play."

"I must order one in the morning, then. Honora wouldn't care, would she?Oh, when do you suppose she'll be home? Does she like to stay over inthat queer place you told me of, fussing around with those frogs?"

Kate had been rash enough to endeavor to explain something of theFulhams' theories regarding the mechanistic conception of life. Therewas nothing to do but accord Miss Morrison the laugh which she appearedto think was coming to her.

"I can see that I shouldn't have told you about anything like that,"Kate said. "I see how mussy you would think any scientific experiment tobe. And, really, matters of greater importance engage your attention."

She was quite serious. She had swiftly made up her mind that MaryMorrison, with her conscious seductions, was a much more importantfactor in the race than austere Honora Fulham. But Miss Morrison wassuspicious of satire.

It was the rear room on the second floor, and it presented a sternparallelogram occupied by the bare necessaries of a sleeping-apartment.The walls and rug were gray, the furniture of mahogany. Mary Morrisonlooked at it a moment with a slow smile. Then she tossed her green coatand her hat with its sweeping veil upon the bed. She flung her cameraand her magazines upon the table. She opened her traveling-bag, and,with hands that almost quivered with impatience, placed upon thetoilet-table the silver implements that Honora had sent her andscattered broadcast among them her necklaces and bracelets.

"I'll have some flowering plants to-morrow," she told Kate. "And when mytrunks and boxes come, I'll make the wilderness blossom like a rose. Howhave you decorated your room?"

"I haven't much money," said Kate bluntly; "but I've--well, I'veventured on my own interpretations of what a bed-sitting-roomshould be."

Miss Morrison threw her a bright glance.

"I'll warrant you have," she said. "I should think you'd contrive a veryoriginal sort of a place. Thank you so much for looking after me. Ibrought along a gown for dinner. Naturally, I didn't want to make adull impression at the outset. Haven't I heard that you dine out at somesort of a place where geniuses congregate?"

* * * * *

Years afterward, Kate used to think about the moment when Honora and hercousin met. Honora had come home, breathless from the laboratory. It hadbeen a stirring afternoon for her. She had heard words of significantappreciation spoken to David by the men whom, out of all the world, shewould have chosen to have praise him. She looked at Miss Morrison, whohad come trailing down in a cerise evening gown as if she were a brightcreature of another species, somewhat, Kate could not help whimsicallythinking, as a philosophic beaver might have looked at a bird ofparadise. Then Honora had kissed her cousin.

"Dear blue-eyed Mary!" she had cried. "Welcome to a dull and busy home."

"How good of you to take me in," sighed Miss Morrison. "I hated tobother you, Honora, but I thought you might keep me out of mischief."

"There!" cried Miss Morrison; "you can see for yourself that she doesn'tlike me!"

"Nonsense," said Kate, really irritated. "I shall like you if Honoradoes. Let me help you dress, Honora dear. Are you tired or happy thatyour cheeks are so flushed?"

"I'm both tired and happy, Kate. Excuse me, Mary, won't you? If Davidcomes in you'll know him by instinct. Believe me, you are very welcome."

Up in Honora's bedroom, Kate asked, as she helped her friend into thetidy neutral silk she wore to dinner: "Is the blue-eyed one going to bea drain on you, girl? You oughtn't to carry any more burdens. Are youdisturbed? Is she more of a proposition than you counted on?"

Honora turned her kind but troubled eyes on Kate.

"I can't explain," she said in _so_ low a voice that Kate could hardlycatch the words. "She's like me, isn't she? I seemed to see--"

"What?"

"Ghosts--bright ghosts. Never mind."

"You're not thinking that you are old, are you?" cried Kate. "Becausethat's absurd. You're wonderful--wonderful."

Laughter arose to them--the mingled voices of David Fulham and hisnewfound cousin by marriage.

"Good!" cried Honora with evident relief. "They seem to be taking toeach other. I didn't know how David would like her."

He liked her very well, it transpired, and when the introductions hadbeen made at the Caravansary, it appeared that every one was delightedwith her. If their reception of her differed from that they had given toKate, it was nevertheless kindly--almost gay. They leaped to theconclusion that Miss Morrison was designed to enliven them. And so itproved. She threw even the blithe Marna Cartan temporarily into theshade; and Dr. von Shierbrand, who was accustomed to talking with Kateupon such matters as the national trait of incompetence, or thereprehensible modern tendency of coddling the unfit, turned hisattention to Miss Morrison and to lighter subjects.

* * * * *

Two days later a piano stood in Honora's drawing-room, and Miss Morrisonsat before it in what may be termed occult draperies, making lovelymusic. Technically, perhaps, the music left something to be desired.Mrs. Barsaloux and Marna Cartan thought so, at any rate. But thehabitues of Mrs. Dennison's near-home soon fell into the way of trailingover to the Fulhams' in Mary Morrison's wake, and as they groupedthemselves about on the ugly Mission furniture, in a soft light producedby many candles, and an atmosphere drugged with highly scented flowers,they fell under the spell of many woven melodies.

When Mary Morrison's tapering fingers touched the keys they broughtforth a liquid and caressing sound like falling water in a fountain, andwhen she leaned over them as if to solicit them to yield their kindresponses, her attitude, her subtle garments, the swift interrogativeturns of her head, brought visions to those who watched and listened.Kate dreamed of Italian gardens--the gardens she never had seen; VonShierbrand thought of dark German forests; Honora, of a moonlit glade.These three confessed so much. The others did not tell their visions,but obviously they had them. Blue-eyed Mary was one of those women whoinspire others. She was the quintessence of femininity, and shedistilled upon the air something delicately intoxicating, like the odorof lotus-blossoms.

It was significant that the Fulhams' was no longer a house of suburbanhabits. Ten o'clock and lights out had ceased to be the rule. Aftermusic there frequently was a little supper, and every one was pressedinto service in the preparation of it. Something a trifle fagged andhectic began to show in the faces of Mrs. Dennison's family, and thatgood woman ventured to offer some reproof.

"You all are hard workers," she said, "and you ought to be hard resters,too. You're not acting sensibly. Any one would think you were theidle rich."

"Well, we're entitled to all the pleasure we can get," Mary Morrison hadretorted. "There are people who think that pleasure isn't for them. ButI am just the other way--I take it for granted that pleasure is myright. I always take everything in the way of happiness that I can getmy hands on."

"You mean, of course, my dear child," said the gentle Mrs. Goodrich,"all that you can get which does not belong to some one else."

Blue-eyed Mary laughed throatily.

"Fortunately," she said, "there's pleasure enough to go around. It'slike air, every one can breathe it in."

VII

But though Miss Morrison had made herself so brightly, so almostuniversally at home, there was one place into which she did not ventureto intrude. This was Kate's room. Mary had felt from the first a lack ofencouragement there, and although she liked to talk to Kate, andreceived answers in which there appeared to be no lack of zest andresponse, yet it seemed to be agreed that when Miss Barrington cametramping home from her hard day's work, she was to enjoy the solitude ofher chamber.

Mary used to wonder what went on there. Miss Barrington could be verystill. The hours would pass and not a sound would issue from that highupper room which looked across the Midway and included the satisfactorysight of the Harper Memorial and the massed University buildings. Katewould, indeed, have had difficulty in explaining that she was engaged inthe mere operation of living. Her life, though lonely, and to an extentundirected, seemed abundant. Restless she undoubtedly was, but it was arestlessness which she succeeded in holding in restraint. At first whenshe came up to the city the daze of sorrow was upon her. But this waspassing. A keen awareness of life suffused her now and made herobservant of everything about her. She felt the tremendous incongruitiesof city life, and back of these incongruities, the great, hidden,passionate purpose which, ultimately, meant a city of immeasurablepower. She rejoiced, as the young and gallant dare to do, that she waslaboring in behalf of that city. Not one bewildered, wavering, piteouslife was adjusted through her efforts that she did not feel that herpersonal sum of happiness had received an addition. That deep andburning need for religion, or for love, or for some splendid andirresistible impetus, was satisfied in part by her present work.

To start out each morning to answer the cry of distress, to understandthe intricate yet effective machinery of benevolent organizations, sothat she could call for aid here and there, and have instant andintelligent cooeperation, to see broken lives mended, the friendlessbefriended, the tempted lifted up, the evil-doer set on safe paths,warmed and sustained her. That inquisitive nature of hers was now sooccupied with the answering of practical and immediate questions that ithad ceased to beat upon the hollow doors of the Unknown with unavailinginquiries.

So far as her own life was concerned, she seemed to have found, not ahaven, but a broad sea upon which she could triumphantly sail. Thatshame at being merely a woman, with no task, no utility, noindependence, had been lifted from her. So, in gratitude, everywhere, atall times, she essayed to help other women to a similar independence.She did not go so far as to say that it was the panacea for all ills,but she was convinced that more than half of the incoherent pain ofwomen's lives could be avoided by the mere fact of financialindependence. It became a religion with her to help the women with whomshe came in contact, to find some unguessed ability or applicabilitywhich would enable them to put money in their purses. With liberty toleave a miserable condition, one often summoned courage to remain andface it. She pointed that out to her wistful constituents, the poorlittle wives who had found in marriage only a state of supine drudgery,and of unexpectant, monotonous days. She was trying to give them somegame to play. That was the way she put it to them. If one had a game toplay, there was use in living. If one had only to run after the balls ofthe players, there was not zest enough to carry one along.

She began talking now and then at women's clubs and at meetings ofwelfare workers. Her abrupt, picturesque way of saying things "carried,"as an actor would put it. Her sweet, clear contralto held the ear; heraquiline comeliness pleased the eye without enticing it; her capable,fit-looking clothes were so happily secondary to her personality thateven the women could not tell how she was dressed. She was the leastseductive person imaginable; and she looked so self-sufficient that itseldom occurred to any one to offer her help. Yet she was in no sensebold or aggressive. No one ever thought of accusing her of being any ofthose things. Many loved her--loved her wholesomely, with a love inwhich trust was a large element. Children loved her, and the sick, andthe bad. They looked to her to help them out of their helplessness. Shewas very young, but, after all, she was maternal. A psychologist wouldhave said that there was much of the man about her, and her love of thefair chance, her appetite for freedom, her passion for using her owncapabilities might, indeed, have seemed to be of the masculine varietyof qualities; but all this was more than offset by this inherent impulsefor maternity. She was born, apparently, to care for others, but she hadto serve them freely. She had to be the dispenser of good. She wasunconsciously on the outlook against those innumerable forms ofslavishness which affection or religion gilded and made to seem likenoble service.

Among those who loved her was August von Shierbrand. He loved herapparently in spite of himself. She did not in the least accord with hisromantic ideas of what a woman should be. He was something of a poet,and a specialized judge of poetry, and he liked women of the sort whoinspired a man to write lyrics. He had tried unavailingly to writelyrics about Kate, but they never would "go." He confessed hisfiascoes to her.

"Nothing short of martial measures seems to suit you," he saidlaughingly.

"But why write about me at all, Dr. von Shierbrand?" she inquired. "Idon't want any one writing about me. What I want to do is to learn howto write myself--not because I feel impelled to be an author, butbecause I come across things almost every day which ought to beexplained."

"You are completely absorbed in this extraordinary life of yours!" hecomplained.

"Well, life is my chosen profession. I want to see, feel, know, breathe,Life. I thought I'd never be able to get at it. I used to feel like aperson walking in a mist. But it's different now. Everything has takenon a clear reality to me. I'm even beginning to understand that I myselfam a reality and that my thoughts as well as my acts are entities. I'mgetting so that I can define my own opinions. I don't believe there'sanybody in the city who would so violently object to dying as I would,Dr. von Shierbrand."

The sabre cut on Von Shierbrand's face gleamed.

"You certainly seem at the antipodes of death, Miss Barrington," he saidwith a certain thickness in his utterance. "And I, personally, can thinkof nothing more exhilarating than in living beside you. I meant towait--to wait a long time before asking you. But what is the use ofwaiting? I want you to marry me. I feel as if it must be--as if Icouldn't get along without you to help me enjoy things."

Kate looked at him wonderingly. It was before the afternoon concert andthey were sitting in Honora's rejuvenated drawing-room while they waitedfor the others to come downstairs.

"But, Dr. von Shierbrand!" she cried, "I don't like a city withoutsuburbs!"

"I beg your pardon!"

"I like to see signs of my City of Happiness as I approach--outlyingvillas, and gardens, and then straggling, pleasant neighborhoods, andfinally Town."

"Oh, I see. You mean I've been too unexpected. Can't you overlook that?You're an abrupt person yourself, you know. I'm persuaded that we couldbe happy together."

"No, no; I haven't had a hopeless love if that's what you mean. I'm alllucid and clear and comfortable nowadays--partly because I've stoppedthinking about some of the things to which I couldn't find answers, andpartly because Life is answering some of my questions."

"How to be happy without being in love, perhaps."

"Well, I am happy--temperately so. Perhaps that's the only degree ofhappiness I shall ever know. Of course, when I was younger I thought Ishould get to some sort of a place where I could stand in swimming gloryand rejoice forever, but I see now how stupid I was to think anything ofthe sort. I hoped to escape the commonplace by reaching some beatitude,but now I have found that nothing really is commonplace. It only seemsso when you aren't understanding enough to get at the essential truthof things."

"Oh, that's true! That's true!" cried Von Shierbrand.

"Oh, Kate, I do love you. You seem to complete me. When I'm with you Iunderstand myself. Please try to love me, dear. We'll get a little homeand have a garden and a library--think how restful it will be. I can'ttell you how I want a place I can call home."

"There they come," warned Kate as she heard footsteps on the stairs."You must take 'no' for your answer, dear man. I feel just like amother to you."

Dr. von Shierbrand arose, obviously offended, and he allied himself withMary Morrison on the way to the concert. Kate walked with Honora andDavid until they met with Professor Wickersham, who was also bound forMandel Hall and the somewhat tempered classicism which the TheodoreThomas Orchestra offered to "the University crowd."

"Please walk with me, Miss Barrington," said Wickersham. "I want you toexplain the universe to me."

"I can do that nicely," retorted Kate, "because Dr. von Shierbrand hasalready explained it to me."

Blue-eyed Mary was pouting. She never liked any variety of amusement,conversational or otherwise, in which she was not the center.

* * * * *

So Kate's life sped along. It was not very significant, perhaps, or itwould not have seemed so to the casual onlooker, but life is measured byits inward rather than its outward processes, and Kate felt herselfbeing enriched by her experiences.

She enjoyed being brought into contact with the people she met in herwork--not alone the beneficiaries of her ministrations, but thepolicemen and the police matrons and the judges of the police court. Shejoined a society of "welfare workers," and attended their suppers andmeetings, and tried to learn by their experience and to keep her ownideas in abeyance.

She could not help noticing that she differed in some particulars frommost of these laborers in behalf of the unfortunate. They broughtpractical, unimaginative, and direct minds to bear upon the problemsbefore them, while she never could escape her theories or deny herselfthe pleasure of looking beyond the events to the causes which underlaythem. This led her to jot down her impressions in a notebook, and toventure on comments concerning her experiences.

Moreover, not only was she deeply moved by the disarrangement andbewilderment which she saw around her, but she began to awaken tocertain great events and developing powers in the world. She read thesardonic commentators upon modern life--Ibsen, Strindberg, and manyothers; and if she sometimes passionately repudiated them, at othertimes she listened as if she were finding the answers to her owninquiries. It moved her to discover that men, more often than women, hadbeen the interpreters of women's hidden meanings, and that they had beenthe setters-forth of new visions of sacredness and fresh definitionsof liberty.

It was these men--these aloof and unsentimental ones--who had pointedout that the sin of sins committed by women had been the indifference totheir own personalities. They had been echoers, conformers, imitators;even, in their own way, cowards. They had feared the conventions, andhad been held in thrall by their own carefully nursed ideals ofthemselves. They had lacked the ability to utilize their powers ofefficiency; had paid but feeble respect to their own ideals; hadaltogether measured themselves by too limited a standard. Failing wifelyjoy, they had too often regarded themselves as unsuccessful, and hadapologized tacitly to the world for using their abilities in anydirection save one. They had not permitted themselves that strong,clean, robust joy of developing their own powers for mere delight in theexercise of power.

But now, so Kate believed,--so her great instructors informedher,--they were awakening to their privileges. An intenser awareness oflife, of the right to expression, and of satisfaction in constructiveperformances was stirring in them. If they desired enfranchisement, theywanted it chiefly for spiritual reasons. This was a fact which theopponents of the advancing movement did not generally recognize. Kateshrank from those fruitless arguments at the Caravansary with theexcellent men who gravely and kindly rejected suffrage for women uponthe ground that they were protecting them by doing so. They did not seemto understand that women desired the ballot because it was a symbol aswell as because it was an instrument and an argument. If it was tobenefit the working woman in the same way in which it benefited theworking man, by making individuality a thing to be considered; if it wasto give the woman taxpayer certain rights which would put her on a parwith the man taxpayer, a thousand times more it was to benefit all womenby removing them from the class of the unconsidered, the superfluous,and the negligible.

Yes, women were wanting the ballot because it included potentiality, andin potentiality is happiness. No field seems fair if there is no gatewayto it--no farther field toward which the steps may be turned. Kate wasgetting hold of certain significant similes. She saw that it was pastthe time of walls and limits. Walled cities were no longer endurable,and walled and limited possibilities were equally obsolete. If thedeparture of the "captains and the kings" was at hand, if the new forcesof democracy had routed them, if liberty for all men was now an ethicneed of civilization, so political recognition was necessary for women.Women required the ballot because the need was upon them to performgreat labors. Their unutilized benevolence, their disregarded powers oforganization, their instinctive sense of economy, theirmaternal-oversoul, all demanded exercise. Women were the possessors ofcertain qualities so abundant, so ever-renewing, that the ordinaryrequirements of life did not give them adequate employment. With adivine instinct of high selfishness, of compassion, of realization, theywere seeking the opportunity to exercise these powers.

"The restlessness of women," "the unquiet sex," were terms which werebecoming glorious in Kate's ears. She saw no reason why women as well asmen should not be allowed to "dance upon the floor of chance." All abouther were women working for the advancement of their city, their country,and their race. They gave of their fortunes, of their time, of all thepowers of their spirit. They warred with political machines, with basepoliticians, with public contumely, with custom. What would have crushedwomen of equally gentle birth a generation before, seemed now of littleaccount to these workers. They looked beyond and above the irritationof the moment, holding to the realization that their labors were ofvital worth. Under their administration communities passed fromshameless misery to self-respect; as the result of their generosity,courts were sustained in which little children could make their plea andwretched wives could have justice. Servants, wantons, outcasts, theinsane, the morally ill, all were given consideration in this newreligion of compassion. It was amazing to Kate to see light come to dulleyes--eyes which had hitherto been lit only with the fires of hate. Asshe walked the gray streets in the performance of her tasks, weary andbewildered though she often was, she was sustained by the new discoveryof that ancient truth that nothing human can be foreign to the person ofgood will. Neither dirt nor hate, distrust, fear, nor deceit should bepermitted to blind her to the essential similarity of all who were"bound together in the bundle of life."

It was not surprising that at this time she should begin writing shortarticles for the women's magazines on the subjects which presentedthemselves to her in her daily work. Her brief, spontaneous, friendlyarticles, full of meat and free from the taint of bookishness, won favorfrom the first. She soon found her evenings occupied with her somewhatmatter-of-fact literary labors. But this work was of such a differentcharacter from that which occupied her in the daytime that so far fromfatiguing her it gave an added zest to her days.

She was not fond of idle evenings. Sitting alone meant thinking, andthought meant an unconquerable homesickness for that lonely man back inSilvertree from whom she had parted peremptorily, and toward whom shedared not make any overtures. Sometimes she sent him an article clippedfrom the magazines or newspapers dealing with some scientific subject,and once she mailed him a number of little photographs which she hadtaken with her own camera and which might reveal to him, if he wereinclined to follow their suggestions, something of the life in which shewas engaged. But no recognition of these wordless messages came fromhim. He had been unable to forgive her, and she beat down the questionthat would arise as to whether she also had been at fault. She was underthe necessity of justifying herself if she would be happy. It was onlyafter many months had passed that she learned how a heavy burden maybecome light by the confession of a fault.

Meantime, she was up early each morning; she breakfasted with the mostalert residents of the Caravansary; then she took the street-car toSouth Chicago and reported at a dismal office. Here the telephone servedto put her into communication with her superior at Settlement House. Shereported what she had done the day before (though, to be sure, a writtenreport was already on its way), she asked advice, she talked over waysand means. Then she started upon her daily rounds. These might carryher to any one of half a dozen suburbs or to the Court of DomesticRelations, or over on the West Side of the city to the Juvenile Court.She appeared almost daily before some police magistrate, and not longafter her position was assumed, she was called upon to give evidencebefore the grand jury.

"However do you manage it all?" Honora asked one evening when Kate hadbeen telling a tale of psychically sinister import. "How can you bringyourself to talk over such terrible and revolting subjects as you haveto, before strange men in open court?"

"A nice old man asked me that very question to-day as I was coming outof the courtroom," said Kate. "He said he didn't like to see young womendoing such work as I was doing. 'Who will do it, then?' I asked. 'Themen,' said he. 'Do you think we can leave it to them?' I asked. 'Perhapsnot,' he admitted. 'But at least it could be left to older women.' 'Theyhaven't the strength for it,' I told him, and then I gave him a notionof the number of miles I had ridden the day before in the street-car-itwas nearly sixty, I believe. 'Are you sure it's worth it?' he asked. Hehad been listening to the complaint I was making against a young man whohas, to my knowledge, completely destroyed the self-respect of fivegirls--and I've known him but a short time. You can make an estimate ofthe probable number of crimes of his if it amuses you. 'Don't you thinkit's worth while if that man is shut up where he can't do any moremischief?' I asked him. Of course he thought it was; but he was stillshaking his head over me when I left him. He still thought I ought to beat home making tidies. I can't imagine that it ever occurred to him thatI was a disinterested economist in trying to save myself from waste."

She laughed lightly in spite of her serious words.

"Anyway," she said, "I find this kind of life too amusing to resign. Oneof the settlement workers was complaining to me this morning about theinherent lack of morals among some of our children. It appears that theHarrigans--there are seven of them--commandeered some old clothes thathad been sent in for charitable distribution. They poked around in thetrunks when no one was watching and helped themselves to what theywanted. The next day they came to a party at the Settlement House toggedup in their plunder. My friend reproved them, but they seemed to beimpervious to her moral comments, so she went to the mother. 'Faith,'said Mrs. Harrigan, 'I tould them not to be bringing home trash likethat. "It ain't worth carryin' away," says I to them.'"

About this time Kate was invited to become a resident of Hull House. Shewas touched and complimented, but, with a loyalty for which there was,perhaps, no demand, she remained faithful to her friends at theCaravansary. She was loath to take up her residence with a group whichwould have too much community of interest. The ladies at Mrs. Dennison'soffered variety. Life was dramatizing itself for her there. In Honoraand Marna and Mrs. Barsaloux and those quiet yet intelligentgentlewomen, Mrs. Goodrich and Mrs. Applegate, in the very servantswhose pert individualism distressed the mid-Victorian Mrs. Dennison,Kate saw working those mysterious world forces concerning which she wasso curious. The frequent futility of Nature's effort to throw to the topthis hitherto unutilized feminine force was no less absorbing than thesuccess which sometimes attended the impulsion. To the general andwidespread convulsion, the observer could no more be oblivious than toan earthquake or a tidal wave.

VIII

Kate had not seen Lena Vroom for a long time, and she had indefinitelymissed her without realizing it until one afternoon, as she wassearching for something in her trunk, she came across a package ofLena's letters written to her while she was at Silvertree. That night atthe table she asked if any one had seen Lena recently.

"Seen her?" echoed David Fulham. "I've seen the shadow of her blowingacross the campus. She's working for her doctor's degree, like a lot ofother silly women. She's living by herself somewhere, on crackers andcheese, no doubt."

"Would she really be so foolish?" cried Kate. "I know she's devoted toher work, but surely she has some sense of moderation."

"Not a bit of it," protested the scientist. "A person of mediocreattainments who gets the Ph.D. bee in her bonnet has no senseof any sort. I see them daily, men and women,--but womenparticularly,--stalking about the grounds and in and out of classes,like grotesque ghosts. They're staggering under a mental load too heavyfor them, and actually it might be a physical load from its effects.They get lop-sided, I swear they do, and they acquire all sorts ofmiserable little personal habits that make them both pitiable andridiculous. For my part, I believe the day will come when no woman willbe permitted to try for the higher degrees till her brain has beenscientifically tested and found to be adequate for the work."

"But as for Lena," said Kate, "I thought she was quite a wonder at herlessons."

"Up to a certain point," admitted Fulham, "I've no doubt she does verywell. But she hasn't the capacity for higher work, and she'll be thelast one to realize it. My advice to you, Miss Barrington, is to look upyour friend and see what she is doing with herself. You haven't any ofyou an idea of the tragedies of the classroom, and I'll not tell them toyou. But they're serious enough, take my word for it."

"Yes, do look her up, Kate," urged Honora.

"It's hard to manage anything extra during the day," said Kate. "I mustgo some evening."

"Perhaps Cousin Mary could go with you," suggested Honora. Honora threwa glance of affectionate admiration at her young cousin, who hadblossomed out in a bewitching little frock of baby blue, and whose eyesreflected the color.

She was, indeed, an entrancing thing, was "Blue-eyed Mary." Thetenderness of her lips, the softness of her complexion, the glamour ofher glance increased day by day, and without apparent reason. She seemedto be more eloquent, with the sheer eloquence of womanly emotion.Everything that made her winning was intensified, as if Love, theMaster, had touched to vividness what hitherto had been no more than amere promise.

What was the secret of this exotic florescence? She went out only toUniversity affairs with Honora or Kate, or to the city with MarnaCartan. Her interests appeared to be few; and she was neither a writernor a receiver of letters. Altogether, the sources of that hidden joywhich threw its enchantment over her were not to be guessed.

But what did it all matter? She was an exhilarating companion--and whata contrast to poor Lena! That night, lying in bed, Kate reproachedherself for her neglect of her once so faithful friend. Lena might begoing through some severe experience, alone and unaided. Kate determinedto find out the truth, and as she had a half-holiday on Saturday, shestarted on her quest.

Lena, it transpired, had moved twice during the term and had neglectedto register her latest address. So she was found only after muchsearching, and twilight was already gathering when Kate reached thedingy apartment in which Lena had secreted herself. It was a rear roomup three flights of stairs, approached by a long, narrow corridor whichthe economical proprietor had left in darkness. Kate rapped softly atfirst; then, as no one answered, most sharply. She was on the point ofgoing away when the door was opened a bare crack and the white, pinchedface of Lena Vroom peered out.

"It's only Kate, Lena!" Then, as there was no response: "Aren't yougoing to let me in?"

Still Lena did not fling wide the door.

"Oh, Kate!" she said vaguely, in a voice that seemed to drift from aMaeterlinckian mist. "How are you?"

"Pretty sulky, thank you. Why don't you open the door, girl?"

At that Lena drew back; but she was obviously annoyed. Kate stepped intothe bare, unkempt room. Remnants of a miserable makeshift meal were tobe seen on a rickety cutting-table; the bed was unmade; and on the desk,in the center of the room, a drop-lamp with a leaking tube polluted theair. There was a formidable litter of papers on a great table, andbefore it stood a swivel chair where Lena Vroom had been sittingpreparing for her degree.

Kate deliberately took this all in and then turned her gaze on herfriend.

"What's the use, girl?" she demanded with more than her usualabruptness. "What are you doing it all for?"

Lena threw a haggard glance at her.

"We won't talk about that," she said in that remote, sunken voice. "Ihaven't the strength to discuss it. To be perfectly frank, Kate, youmustn't visit me now. You see, I'm studying night and day for theinquisition."

"The--"

"Yes, inquisition. You see, it isn't enough that my thesis should befinished. I can't get my degree without a last, terrible ordeal. Oh,Kate, you can't imagine what it is like! Girls who have been through ithave told me. You are asked into a room where the most important membersof the faculty are gathered. They sit about you in a semicircle and forhours they hurl questions at you, not necessarily questions relating toanything you have studied, but inquiries to test your generalintelligence. It's a fearful experience."

She sank on her unmade cot, drawing a ragged sweater about hershoulders, and looked up at Kate with an almost furtive gaze. She alwayshad been a small, meagre creature, but now she seemed positivelyshriveled. The pride and plenitude of womanhood were as far from herrealization as they could be from a daughter of Eve. Sexless, stranded,broken before an undertaking too great for her, she sat there in thethroes of a sudden, nervous chill. Then, after a moment or two, shebegan to weep and was rent and torn with long, shuddering sobs.

Kate strangled down, "The best thing that could happen to you"; and saidinstead, "You aren't going about the thing in the best way to succeed."

"I've done all I could," moaned her friend. "I've only allowed myselffour hours a night for sleep; and have hardly taken out time for meals.I've concentrated as it seems to me no one ever concentrated before."

"Oh, Lena, Lena!" Kate cried compassionately. "Can it really be that youhave so little sense, after all? Oh, you poor little drowned rat, you."She bent over her, pulled the worn slippers from her feet, and thrusther beneath the covers.

"Say another word and I'll throw them out of the window," cried Kate,really aroused. "Lie down there."

Lena began again to sob, but this time with helpless anger, for Katelooked like a grenadier as she towered there in the small room and itwas easy to see that she meant to be obeyed. She explored Lena'scupboard for supplies, and found, after some searching, a can of soupand the inevitable crackers. She heated the soup, toasted the crackers,and forced Lena to eat. Then she extinguished the lamp, with itspoisonous odor, and, wrapping herself in her cloak threw open the windowand sat in the gloom, softly chatting about this and that. Lena made nocoherent answers. She lay in sullen torment, casting tearful glances ather benevolent oppressor.

But Kate had set her will to conquer that of her friend and Lena'shysteric opposition was no match for it. Little by little the tense formbeneath the blankets relaxed. Her stormily drawn breath became moreeven. At last she slept, which gave Kate an opportunity to slip out tobuy a new tube for the lamp and adjust it properly. She felt quite safein lighting it, for Lena lay in complete exhaustion, and she took theliberty of looking over the clothes which were bundled into animprovised closet on the back of the door. Everything was in wretchedcondition. Buttons and hooks were lacking; a heap of darning layuntouched; Lena's veil, with which she attempted to hide the ruin of herhat, was crumpled into the semblance of a rain-soaked cobweb; and hershoes had gone long without the reassurance of a good blacking.

Kate put some irons over the stove which served Lena as a cooking-range,and proceeded on a campaign of reconstruction. It was midnight when shefinished, and she was weary and heartsick. The little, strained face onthe pillow seemed to belong to one whom the furies were pursuing. Yetnothing was pursuing her save her own fanatical desire for a thingwhich, once obtained, would avail her nothing. She had not personalityenough to meet life on terms which would allow her one iota ofleadership. She was discountenanced by her inherent drabness:beaten by the limits of her capacity. When Kate had ordered theroom,--scrupulously refraining from touching any of Lena's papers,--sheopened the window and, putting the catch on the door, closed it softlybehind her.

* * * * *

Kate's frequent visits to Lena, though brief, were none too welcome.Even the food she brought with her might better, in Lena's estimation,be dispensed with than that the all-absorbing reading and researchshould be interrupted. Finally Kate called one night to find Lena gone.She had taken her trunk and oil-stove and the overworked gas-lamp andhad stolen away. To ferret her out would have been inexcusable.

"It shows how changed she is," Kate said to Honora. "Fancy the old-timeLena hiding from me!"

"You must think of her as having a run of fever, Kate. Whatever she doesmust be regarded as simply symptomatic," said Honora, understandingly."She's really half-mad. David says the graduates are often likethat--the feminine ones."

Kate tried to look at it in a philosophic way, but her heart yearned andached over the poor, infatuated fugitive. The February convocation wasdrawing near, and with it Lena's dreaded day of examination. The nightbefore its occurrence, the conversation at the Caravansary turned to thecandidates for the honors.

"There are some who meet the quiz gallantly enough," David Fulhamremarked. "But the majority certainly come like galley slaves scourgedto their dungeon. Some of them would move a heart of stone with theirsufferings. Honora, why don't you and Miss Barrington look up yourfriend Miss Vroom once more? She's probably needing you pretty badly."

"I don't mind being a special officer, Mr. Fulham," said Kate, "andit's my pride and pleasure to make child-beaters tremble and to arrestbrawny fathers,--I make rather a specialty of six-foot ones,--but reallyI'm timid about going to Lena's again. She has given me to understandthat she doesn't want me around, and I'm not enough of a pachyderm toget in the way of her arrows again."

But David Fulham couldn't take that view of it.

"She's not sane," he declared. "Couldn't be after such a course as she'sbeen putting herself through. She needs help."

However, neither Kate nor Honora ventured to offer it. They spent theevening together in Honora's drawing-room. The hours passed more rapidlythan they realized, and at midnight David came stamping in. His facewas white.

"You haven't been to the laboratory, David?" reproached his wife."Really, you mustn't. I thought it was agreed between us that we'd actlike civilized householders in the evening." She was regarding him withan expression of affectionate reproof.

"I've been doing laboratory work," he said shortly, "but it wasn't inthe chemical laboratory. Wickersham and I hunted up your friend--and wefound her in a state of collapse."

"No!" cried Kate, starting to her feet.

"I told you, didn't I?" returned David. "Don't I know them, the geese?We had to break in her door, and there she was sitting at herstudy-table, staring at her books and seeing nothing. She couldn't talkto us--had a temporary attack of severe aphasia, I suppose. Wickershamsaid he'd been anxious about her for weeks--she's been specializing withhim, you know."

"What did you do with her?" demanded Honora.

"Bundled her up in her outside garments and dragged her out of doorsbetween us and made her walk. She could hardly stand at first. We had tohold her up. But we kept right on hustling her along, and after a timewhen the fresh air and exercise had got in their work, she could findthe right word when she tried to speak to us. Then we took her to arestaurant and ordered a beefsteak and some other things. She wanted togo back to her room--said she had more studying to do; but we made itclear to her at last that it wasn't any use,--that she'd have to standor fall on what she had. She promised us she wouldn't look at a book,but would go to bed and sleep, and anybody who has the hardihood to wishthat she wins her degree may pray for a good night for her."

Honora was looking at her husband with a wide, shining gaze.

"How did you come to go to her, David?" she asked admiringly. "Shewasn't in any of your classes."

"Now, don't try to make out that I'm benevolent, Honora," Fulham saidpetulantly. "I went because I happened to meet Wickersham on theMidway. She's been hiding, but he had searched her out and appealed tome to go with him. What I did was at his request."

"How do I know?" demanded Fulham. "I suppose she'll feel like a mangoing to execution when she enters that council-room. Maybe she'll standup to it and maybe she'll not. She'll spend as much nervous energy onthe experience as would carry her through months of sane, reasonableliving in the place she ought to be in--that is to say, in a millinerystore or some plain man's kitchen."

"Oh, David!" said Honora with gentle wifely reproach.

But Fulham was making no apologies.

"If we men ill-treated women as they ill-treat themselves," he said,"we'd be called brutes of the worst sort."

"Of course!" cried Kate. "A person may have some right to ill-treathimself, but he never has any right to ill-treat another."

"If we hitched her up to a plough," went on Fulham, not heeding, "weshouldn't be overtaxing her physical strength any more than sheovertaxes her mental strength when she tries--the ordinary woman, Imean, like Miss Vroom--to keep up to the pace set by men offirst-rate caliber."

He went up to bed on this, still disturbed, and Honora and Kate, muchdepressed, talked the matter over. But they reached no conclusion. Theywanted to go around the next morning and help Lena,--get her breakfastand see that she was properly dressed,--but they knew they would beunwelcome. Later they heard that she had come through the ordeal after afashion. She had given indications of tremendous research. But her eyes,Wickersham told Kate privately, looked like diseased oysters, and it waseasy to see that she was on the point of collapse.

Kate saw nothing of her until the day of convocation, though she triedseveral times to get into communication with her. There must have beenquite two hundred figures in the line that wound before the Presidentand the other dignitaries to receive their diplomas; and the great hallwas thronged with interested spectators. Kate could have thrilled withpride of her _alma mater_ had not her heart been torn with sympathy forher friend whose emaciated figure looked more pathetic than ever before.Now and then a spasmodic movement shook her, causing her head to quiverlike one with the palsy and her hands to make futile gestures. Andalthough she was the most touching and the least joyous of those whowent forward to victory, she was not, after all, so very exceptional.

Kate could not help noticing how jaded and how spent were many of thecandidates for the higher degrees. They seemed to move in a tensedream, their eyes turning neither to right nor left, and the whole ofthem bent on the one idea of their dear achievement. Although there weresome stirring figures among them,--men and women who seemed to have comeinto the noble heritage which had been awaiting them,--there were morewho looked depleted and unfit. It grew on Kate, how superfluousscholarship was when superimposed on a feeble personality. The collegescould not make a man, try as they might. They could add to the capacityof an endowed and adventurous individual, but for the inept, thediffident, their learning availed nothing. They could cram bewilderedheads with facts and theories, but they could not hold the mediocre backfrom their inevitable anticlimax.

"A learned derelict is no better than any other kind," mused Katecompassionately. She resolved that now, at last, she would commandLena's obedience. She would compel her to take a vacation,--would findout what kind of a future she had planned. She would surround her withsmall, friendly offices; would help her to fit herself out in newgarments, and would talk over ways and means with her.

She went the next day to the room where Lena's compassionate professorshad found her that night of dread and terror before her examination. Butshe had disappeared again, and the landlady could give no informationconcerning her.

IX

The day was set. Marna was to sing. It seemed to the little group offriends as if the whole city palpitated with the fact. At any rate, theCaravansary did so. They talked of little else, and Mary Morrison weptfor envy. Not that it was mean envy. Her weeping was a sort of tribute,and Marna felt it to be so.

"You're going to be wonderful," Mary sobbed. "The rest of us are merelyyoung, or just women, or men. We can't be anything more no matter howhard we try, though we keep feeling as if we were something more. Butyou're going to SING! Oh, Marna!"

Time wore on, and Marna grew hectic with anticipation. Her lips were toored, her breath came too quickly; she intensified herself; and shepracticed her quivering, fitful, passionate songs with religiousdevotion. So many things centered around the girl that it was no wonderthat she began to feel a disproportionate sense of responsibility. Allof her friends were taking it for granted that she would make a success.

Mrs. Barsaloux was giving a supper at the Blackstone after theperformance. The opera people were coming and a number of otherdistinguished ones; and Marna was having a frock made of the color of agold-of-Ophir rose satin which was to clothe her like sunshine. Honorabrought out a necklace of yellow opals whimsically fashioned.

"I no longer use such things, child," she said with a touch of emotion."And I want you to wear them with your yellow dress."

"Why, they're like drops of water with the sun in them!" cried Marna."How good you all are to me! I can't imagine why."

When the great night came, the audience left something to be desired,both as to numbers and fashion. Although Marna's appearance had beenwell advertised, it was evident that the public preferred to listen tothe great stars. But the house was full enough and enthusiastic enoughto awaken in the little Irish girl's breast that form of elation whichmasks as self-obliteration, and which is the fuel that feeds thefires of art.

Kate had gone with the Fulhams and they, with Blue-eyed Mary and Dr. vonShierbrand, sat together in the box which Mrs. Barsaloux had given them,and where, from time to time, she joined them. But chiefly she hoveredaround Marna in that dim vast world back of the curtain.

They said of Marna afterward that she was like a spirit. She seemed lessand more than a woman, an evanescent essence of feminine delight. Herlaughter, her tears, her swift emotions were all as something held for amoment before the eye and snatched away, to leave but the waveringeidolon of their loveliness. She sang with a young Italian who respondedexquisitely to the swift, bright, unsubstantial beauty of her acting,and whom she seemed fairly to bathe in the amber loveliness ofher voice.

Kate, quivering for her, seeming indefinably to be a part of her,suffering at the hesitancies of the audience and shaken with theirapproval, was glad when it was all over. She hastened out to be with thecrowd and to hear what they were saying. They were warm in their praise,but Kate was dissatisfied. She longed for something more emphatic--someexcess of acclaim. She wondered if they were waiting for moreauthoritative audiences to set the stamp of approval on Marna. It didnot occur to her that they had found the performance too opalescentand elusive.

Kate wondered if the girl would feel that anything had been missing, butMarna seemed to be basking in the happiness of the hour. The greatGerman prima donna had kissed her with tears in her eyes; the Frenchbaritone had spoken his compliments with convincing ardor; dozens hadcrowded about her with congratulations; and now, at the head of theglittering table in an opulent room, the little descendant of minstrelssat and smiled upon her friends. A gilded crown of laurel leaves restedon her dark hair; her white neck arose delicately from the yellowed laceand the shining silk; the sunny opals rested upon her shoulders.

"I drink," cried the French baritone, "to a voice of honey and an ivorythroat."

"To a great career," supplemented David Fulham.

"And happiness," Kate broke in, standing with the others and forgettingto be abashed by the presence of so many. Then she called to Marna:--

"I was afraid they would leave out happiness."

Kate might have been the belated fairy godmother who brought this giftin the nick of time. Those at the table smiled at her indulgently,--shewas so eager, so young, so almost fierce. She had dressed herself inwhite without frill or decoration, and the clinging folds of her gowndraped her like a slender, chaste statue. She wore no jewels,--she hadnone, indeed,--and her dark coiled hair in no way disguised the shape ofher fine head. The elaborate Polish contralto across from her, splendidas a mediaeval queen, threw Kate's simplicity into sharp contrast. Marnaturned adoring eyes upon her; Mrs. Barsaloux, that inveterate encouragerof genius, grieved that the girl had no specialty for her to foster; theforeigners paid her frank tribute, and there was no question but thatthe appraisement upon her that night was high.

As for Mama's happiness, for which Kate had put in her stipulation, itwas coming post-haste, though by a circuitous road.

Mrs. Dennison, who had received tickets from Marna, and who had beggedher nephew, George Fitzgerald, to act as her escort, was, in herfashion, too, wondering about the question of happiness for the girl.She was an old-fashioned creature, mid-Victorian in her sincerity. Shehad kissed one man and one only, and him had she married, and sorrowingover her childless estate she had become, when she laid her husband inhis grave, "a widow indeed." Her abundant affection, disused by thisaccident of fate, had spent itself in warm friendships, and in herdevotion to her dead sister's child. She had worked for him till thesilver came into her hair; had sent him through his classical course andthrough the medical college, and the day when she saw him win his titleof doctor of medicine was the richest one of her middle life.

He sat beside her now, strangely pale and disturbed. The opera, she wassorry to note, had not interested him as she had expected it would. Hehad, oddly enough, been reluctant to accompany her, and, as she wasaccustomed to his quick devotion, this distressed her not a little. Washe growing tired of her? Was he ashamed to be seen at the opera with aquiet woman in widow's dress, a touch shabby? Was her much-tired heartto have a last cruel blow dealt it? Accustomed to rather somber pathwaysof thought, she could not escape this one; yet she loyally endeavored toturn from it, and from time to time she stole a look at the stern, paleface beside her to discover, if she could, what had robbed him of hisgood cheer.

For he had been a happy boy. His high spirits had constituted a largepart of his attraction for her. When he had come to her orphaned, it hadbeen with warm gratitude in his heart, and with the expectation of beingloved. As he grew older, that policy of life had become accentuated. Hewas expectant in all that he did. His temperamental friendliness hadcarried him through college, winning for him a warm group of friends andthe genuine regard of his professors. It was helping him to make his wayin the place he had chosen for his field of action. He had not gone intothe more fashionable part of town, but far over on the West Side, wherethe slovenliness of the central part of the city shambles into acommunity of parks and boulevards, crude among their young treessurrounded by neat, self-respecting apartment houses. Such communitiesare to be found in all American cities; communities which set littlestore by fashion, which prize education (always providing it does notprove exotic and breed genius or any form of disturbing beauty), livewithin their incomes and cultivate the manifest virtues. The environmentsuited George Fitzgerald. He had an honest soul without a bohemianimpulse in him. He recognized himself as being middle-class, and he wasproud and glad of it. He liked to be among people who kept their feet onthe earth--people whose yea was yea and whose nay was nay. What wasCeltic in him could do no more for him than lend a touch of almostflaring optimism to the Puritan integrity of his character.

Sundays, as a matter of habit, and occasionally on other days, he washis aunt's guest at the Caravansary. The intellectual cooeperatives thereliked him, as indeed everybody did, everywhere. Invariably Mrs. Dennisonwas told after his departure that she was a fortunate woman to have suchan adopted son. Yet Fitzgerald knew very well that he was unable to becompletely himself among his aunt's patrons. Their conversation was tooglancing; they too often said what they did not mean, for mereconversation's sake; they played with ideas, tossing them about likejuggler's balls; and they attached importance to matters which seemed tohim of little account.

Of late he had been going to his aunt's but seldom, and he had stayedaway because he wanted, above all things in the world, to go. It hadbecome an agony to go--an anguish to absent himself. Which beinginterpreted, means that he was in love. And whom should he love butMarna? Why should any man trouble himself to love another woman whenthis glancing, flashing, singing bird was winging it through the blue?Were any other lips so tender, so tremulous, so arched, so sweet? Thebreath that came between them was perfumed with health; the little rowsof gleaming teeth were indescribably provocative. Actually, the littlered tongue itself seemed to fold itself upward, at the edges, like atender leaf. As for her nostrils, they were delicately flaring likethose of some wood creature, and fashioned for the enjoyment of odorousbanquets undreamed of by duller beings. Her eyes, like pools in shade,breathing mystery and dreams, got between him and his sleep and held himintoxicated in his bed.

Yes, that was Marna as she looked to the eye of love. She was made forone man's love and nothing else, yet she was about to become thewell-loved of the great world! She was not for him--was not made for aman of his mould. She had flashed from obscurity to something rich andplenteous, obviously the child of Destiny--a little princess waiting forher crown. He had not even talked to her many times, and she had nonotion that when she entered the room he trembled; and that when shespoke to him and turned the swimming loveliness of her eyes upon him, hehad trouble to keep his own from filling with tears.

And this was the night of her dedication to the world; the world wasseating her upon her throne, acclaiming her coronation. There wasnothing for him but to go on through an interminably long life, bearinga brave front and hiding his wound.

He loathed the incoherent music; detested the conductor; despised theorchestra; felt murderous toward the Italian tenor; and could have slainthe man who wrote the opera, since it made his bright girl a target forpraise and blame. He feared his aunt's scrutiny, for she had sharpperceptions, and he could have endured anything better than that sheshould spy upon his sacred pain. So he sat by her side, passionatelysolitary amid a crowd and longing to hide himself from the societyof all men.

But he must be distrait, indeed, if he could forget the claim his goodaunt had upon him. He knew how she loved gayety; and her daily lifeoffered her little save labor and monotony.

"Supper next," he said with forced cheerfulness as they came out of theopera-house together. "I'll do the ordering. You'll enjoy a meal foronce which is served independently of you."

He tried to talk about this and that as they made their way on to aglaring below-stairs restaurant, where after-theater folk gathered. Theshowy company jarred hideously on Fitzgerald, yet gave him a chance tosave his face by pretending to watch it. He could tell his aunt who someof the people were, and she would transfer her curiosity from himto them.

"They'll be having a glorious time at Miss Cartan's supper," mused Mrs.Dennison. "How she shines, doesn't she, George? And when you think ofher beginnings there on that Wisconsin farm, isn't it astonishing?"

"Those weren't her beginnings, I fancy," George said, venturing to tasteof discussion concerning her as a brandy-lover may smell a glass heswears he will not drink. "Her beginnings were very long ago. She's aCelt, and she has the witchery of the Celts. How I'd love to hear herrecite some of the new Irish poems!"

"She'd do it beautifully, George. She does everything beautifully. IfI'd had a daughter like that, boy, what a different thing my life wouldbe! Or if you were to give me--"

George clicked his ice sharply in his glass. "See," he said, "there'sHackett coming in--Hackett the actor. Handsome devil, isn't he?"

"Don't use that tone, George," said his aunt reprovingly. "Handsomedevil, indeed! He's a good-looking man. Can't you say that in a properway? I don't want you to be sporty in your talk, George. I always triedwhen you were a little boy to keep you from talking foolishly."

"Oh, there's no danger of my being foolish," he said. "I'm as staid anddull as ever you could wish me to be!"

For the first time in her life she found him bitter, but she had thesense at last to keep silent. His eyes were full of pain, and as helooked about the crowded room with its suggestions of indulgent living,she saw something in his face leap to meet it--something that seemed torepudiate the ideals she had passed on to him. Involuntarily, AnneDennison reached out her firm warm hand and laid it on the quivering oneof her boy.

"A new thought has just come to you!" she said softly. "Before you werethrough with your boast, lad, your temptation came. I saw it. Are youlonely, George? Are you wanting something that Aunt Anne can give you?Won't you speak out to me?"

He drew his hand away from hers.

"No one in the world can give me what I want," he said painfully."Forgive me, auntie; and let's talk of other things."

He had pushed her back into that lonely place where the old often muststand, and she shivered a little as if a cold wind blew over her. He sawit and bent toward her contritely.

"You must help me," he said. "I am very unhappy. I suppose almosteverybody has been unhappy like this sometime. Just bear with me, AuntAnne, dear, and help me to forget for an hour or two."

Anne Dennison regarded him understandingly.

"Here comes our lobster," she said, "and while we eat it, I'll tell youthe story of the first time I ever ate at a restaurant."

He nodded gratefully. After all, while she lived, he could not beutterly bereft.

X

He had taken her home and was leaving, when a carriage passed him. Hecould hear the voices of the occupants--the brisk accents of Mrs.Barsaloux, and the slow, honey-rich tones of Marna. He had never dreamedthat he could do such a thing, but he ran forward with an almost franticdesire to rest his eyes upon the girl's face, and he was beside the curbwhen the carriage drew up at the door of the house where Mrs. Barsalouxand Marna lodged. He flung open the door in spite of the protests of thedriver, who was not sure of his right to offer such a service, and heldout his hand to Mrs. Barsaloux. That lady accepted his politenessgraciously, and, weary and abstracted, moved at once toward thehouse-steps, searching meantime for her key. Fitzgerald had fifteenseconds alone with Marna. She stood half-poised upon the carriage-steps,her hand in his, their eyes almost on a level. Then he said animpossible and insane thing. It was wrung out of his misery, out of hisknowledge of her loveliness.

"I've lost you!" he whispered. "Do you know that to-night ended myhappiness?"

Mrs. Barsaloux heard him vaguely above the jangling of coins and keysand the rushing of a distant train.

"You're not going to leave town, are you, Dr. Fitzgerald?" she inquiredcasually. "I thought your good-bye had a final accent to it."

She was laughing in her easy way, quite unconscious of what was takingplace. She had made an art of laughing, and it carried her and othersover many difficult places. But for once it was powerless to lessen theemotional strain. Mysteriously, Fitzgerald and Marna were experiencing asweet torment in their parting. It was not that she loved him or hadthought of him in that way at all. She had seen him often and had likedhis hearty ways, his gay spirits, and his fine upstanding figure, but hehad been as one who passed by with salutations. Now, suddenly, she wasconscious that he was a man to be desired. She saw his wistful eyes, hisavid lips, his great shoulders. The woman in her awoke to a knowledge ofher needs. Upon such a shoulder might a woman weep, from such eyes mighta woman gather dreams; to allay such torment as his might a woman giveall she had to give. It was incoherent, mad, but not unmeaning. It had,indeed, the ultimate meaning.

He said nothing more; she spoke no word. Each knew they would meet onthe morrow.

The next night, Kate Barrington, making her way swiftly down the Midwayin a misty gloom, saw the little figure of Marna Cartan flutteringbefore her. It was too early for dinner, and Kate guessed that Marna wason her way to pay her a visit--a not rare occurrence these last fewweeks. She called to her, and Marna waited, turning her face for amoment to the mist-bearing wind.

"I was going to you," she said breathlessly.

"So I imagined, bright one."

"Are you tired, Kate, mavourneen?"

"A little. It's been a hard day. I don't see why my heart isn't broken,considering the things I see and hear, Marna! I don't so much mind aboutthe grown-ups. If they succeed in making a mess of things, why, they cantake the consequences. But the kiddies--they're the ones that tormentme. Try as I can to harden myself, and to say that after I've done myutmost my responsibility ends, I can't get them off my mind. But what'son _your_ mind, bright one?"

"Oh, Kate, so much! But wait till we get to the house. It's not a thingto shriek out here on the street."

The wind swept around the corner, buffeting them, and Kate drew Marna'sarm in her own and fairly bore the little creature along with her. Theyentered the silent house, groped through the darkened hall and up thestairs to Kate's own room.

"Honora isn't home, I fancy," she said, in apology for the pervadingdesolation. "She stays late at the laboratory these nights. She saysshe's on the verge of a wonderful discovery. It's something she andDavid have been working out together, but she's been making someexperiments in secret, with which she means to surprise David. Of courseshe'll give all the credit to him--that's her policy. She's hishelpmate, she says, nothing more."

"But the babies?" asked Marna with that naivete characteristic of her."Where are they?"

"Up in the nursery at the top of the house. It will be light and warmthere, I think. Honora had a fireplace put in so that it would becheerful. I always feel sure it's pleasant up there, however forbiddingthe rest of the house may look."

"Mary has made a great difference with it since she came, hasn't she? Ofcourse Honora couldn't do the wonderful things she's doing and befussing around the house all the time. Still, she might train herservants, mightn't she?"

"Well, there aren't really any to train," said Kate. "There's Mrs. Hays,the nurse, a very good woman, but as we take our meals out, and are allso independent, there's no one else required, except occasionally.Honora wouldn't think of such an extravagance as a parlor maid. We're acommunity of working folk, you see."

Marna had been lighting the candles which Kate usually kept for company;and, moreover, since there was kindling at hand, she laid a fire andtouched a match to it.

"I must have it look homey, Kate--for reasons."

"Do whatever it suits you to do, child."

"But can I tell you what it suits me to do, Kate?"

"How do I know? Are you referring to visible things or talking inparables? There's something very eerie about you to-night, Marna. Youreyes look phosphorescent. What's been happening to you? Is it the gloryof last night that's over you yet?"

"No, not that. It's--it's a new glory, Kate."

"A new glory, is it? Since last night? Tell me, then."

Kate flung her long body into a Morris chair and prepared to listen.Marna looked about her as if seeking a chair to satisfy her whim, and,finding none, sank upon the floor before the blaze. She leaned back,resting on one slight arm, and turned her dream-haunted face glowingamid its dark maze of hair, till her eyes could hold those ofher friend.

"Oh, Kate!" she breathed, and made her great confession in those twowords.

"A man!" cried Kate, alarmed. "Now!"

"Now! Last night. And to-day. It was like lightning out of a clear sky.I've seen him often, and now I remember it always warmed me to see him,and made me feel that I wasn't alone. For a long time, I believe, I'vebeen counting him in, and being happier because he was near. But Ididn't realize it at all--till last night."

"You saw him after the opera?"

"Only for half a minute, at the door of my house. We only said a word ortwo. He whispered he had lost me--that I had killed him. Oh, I don'tremember what he said. But we looked straight at each other. I didn'tsleep all night, and when I lay awake I tried to think of the wonderfulfact that I had made my debut, and that it wasn't a failure, at anyrate. But I couldn't think about that, or about my career. I couldn'thold to anything but the look in his eyes and the fact that I was to seehim to-day. Not that he said so. But we both knew. Why, we couldn't havelived if we hadn't seen each other to-day."

"And you did?"

"Oh, we did. He called me up on the telephone about two o'clock, andsaid he had waited as long as he could, and that he'd been walking thefloor, not daring to ring till he was sure that I'd rested enough afterlast night. So I told him to come, and he must have been just around thecorner, for he was there in a minute. I wanted him to come in and sitdown, but he said he didn't believe a house could hold such audacity ashis. So we went out on the street. It was cold and bleak. The Midway wasa long, gray blankness. I felt afraid of it, actually. All the worldlooked forbidding to me--except just the little place where I walkedwith him. It was as if there were a little warm beautiful radius inwhich we could keep together, and live for each other, and comfort eachother, and keep harm away."

"Oh, Marna! And you, with a career before you! What do you mean to do?"

"I don't know what to do. We don't either of us know what to do. He sayshe'll go mad with me on the stage, wearing myself out, the object of thejealousy of other women and of love-making from the men. He--says it's aprofanation. I tried to tell him it couldn't be a profanation to serveart; but, Kate, he didn't seem to know what I meant. He has suchdifferent standards. He wanted to know what I was going to do when I wasold. He said I'd have no real home, and no haven of love; and that I'dbetter be the queen of his home as long as I lived than to rule it alittle while there on the stage and then--be forgotten. Oh, it isn'twhat he said that counts. All that sounds flat enough as I repeat it.It's the wonder of being with some one that loves you like that and offeeling that there are two of you who belong--"

"How do you know you belong?" asked Kate with sharp good sense. "Why,bright one, you've been swept off your feet by mere--forgive me--bymere sex."

That glint of the eyes which Kate called Celtic flashed from Marna.

"Mere sex!" she repeated. "Mere sex! You're not trying to belittle that,are you? Why, Kate, that's the beginning and the end of things. WhatI've always liked about you is that you look big facts in the face andaren't afraid of truth. Sex! Why, that's home and happiness and all awoman really cares for, isn't it?"

"No, it isn't all she cares for," declared Kate valiantly. "She caresfor a great many other things. And when I said mere sex I was trying toput it politely. Is it really home and lifelong devotion that you twoare thinking about, or are you just drunk with youth and--well, withinfatuation?"

Marna turned from her to the fire.

"Kate," she said, "I don't know what you call it, but when I looked inhis eyes I felt as if I had just seen the world for the first time. Ihave liked to live, of course, and to study, and it was tremendouslystirring, singing there before all those people. But, honestly, I cansee it would lead nowhere. A few years of faint celebrity, an emptyheart, a homeless life--then weariness. Oh, I know it. I have a trick ofseeing things. Oh, he's the man for me, Kate. I realized it the momenthe pointed it out. We could not be mistaken. I shall love him foreverand he'll love me just as I love him."

"You're not in a position to pass judgment upon him, Kate. How can youknow what a wonderful soul he has? Why, there's no one so brave, or sohumble, or so sweet, or with such a worship for women--"

"For you, you mean."

"Of course I mean for me. You don't suppose I'd endure it to have himworshiping anybody else, do you? Oh, it's no use protesting. I only hopethat Mrs. Barsaloux won't."

"Yes, doesn't that give you pause? Think of all Mrs. Barsaloux has donefor you; and she did it with the understanding that you were to go onthe stage. She was going to get her reward in the contribution youmade to art."

"Oh, I'm Irish," laughed Marna. "We Irish are a very old people. Wealways knew that if you loved a man, you had to have him or die, andthat if you had him, you'd love to see the look of him coming out inyour sons and daughters."

Suddenly the look of almost infantile blitheness left her face. Thesadness which is inherent in the Irish countenance spread over it, likesudden mist over a landscape. The ancient brooding aspect of the Celtswas upon her.

"Yes," she repeated, "we Irish are very old, and there is nothing aboutlife--or death--that we do not know."

Kate was not quite sure what she meant, but with a sudden impulse sheheld out her arms to the girl, who, with a low cry, fled to them. Thenher bright bravery melted in a torrent of tears.

XI

They had met like flame and wind. It was irrational and wonderful andconclusive. But after all, it might not have come to quite so swift aclimax if Marna, following Kate's advice, had not confided the wholething to Mrs. Barsaloux.

Now, Mrs. Barsaloux was a kind woman, and one with plenty of sentimentin her composition. But she believed that there were times when Loveshould not be given the lead. Naturally, it seemed to her that this wasone of them. She had spent much money upon the education of this girlwhom she had "assumed," as Marna sometimes playfully put it. Nothing buther large, active, and perhaps interfering benevolence and Mama'swinning and inexplicable charm held the two together, and the veryslightness of their relationship placed them under peculiar obligationsto each other.

Mrs. Barsaloux contemplated a face and figure made for love from thebeginning, and delicately ripened for it, like a peach in the sun.

"But you could have waited, my dear girl. There's time for both thelove and the career."

Marna shook her head slowly.

"George says there isn't," she answered with an irritating sweetness."He says I'm not to go on the stage at all. He says--"

"Don't 'he says' me like that, Marna," cried her friend. "It sounds toounutterably silly. Here you are with a beautiful talent--every oneagrees about that--and a chance to develop it. I've made many sacrificesto give you that chance. Very well; you've had your trial before thepublic. You've made good. You could repay yourself and me for all thathas been involved in your development, and you meet a man and comesmiling to me and say that we're to throw the whole thing over because'he says' to."

Marna made no answer at all, but Mrs. Barsaloux saw her settle down inthe deep chair in which she was sitting as if to huddle away from thestorm about to break over her.

"She isn't going to offer any resistance," thought the distressed patronwith dismay. "Her mind is completely made up and she's just crouchingdown to wait till I'm through with my private little hurricane."

So, indeed, it proved. Mrs. Barsaloux felt she had the right to saymuch, and she said it. Marna may or may not have listened. She satshivering and smiling in her chair, and when it was fit for her toexcuse herself, she did, and walked out bravely; but Mrs. Barsalouxnoticed that she tottered a little as she reached the door. She did notgo to her aid, however.

"It's an infatuation," she concluded. "I must treat her as if she had aviolent disease and take care of her. When people are delirious theymust be protected against themselves. It's a delirium with her, and thebest thing I can do is to run off to New York with her. She can make hernext appearance when the opera company gets there. I'll arrange it thisafternoon."

She refrained from telling Marna of her plans, but she went straight tothe city and talked over the situation with her friend the impresario.He seemed anything but depressed. On the contrary, he wasexcited--even exalted.

"Spirit her away, madam," he advised. "Of course she will miss her loverhorribly, and that will be the best thing that can happen to her. Whydid not the public rise to her the other night? Not because she couldnot sing: far from it. If a nightingale sings, then Miss Cartan does.But she left her audience a little cold. Let us face the facts. You sawit. We all saw it. And why? Because she was too happy, madam; toocomplaisant; too uninstructed in the emotions. Now it will be different.We will take her away; we will be patient with her while she suffers;afterward she will bless us, for she will have discovered the secret ofthe artist, and then when she opens her little silver throat we shallhave SONG."

Mrs. Barsaloux, with many compunctions, and with some pangs of puremotherly sympathy, nevertheless agreed.

"If only he had been a man above the average," she said, as shetearfully parted from the great man, "perhaps it would not havemattered so much."

The impresario lifted his eyebrows and his mustaches at the same timeand assumed the aspect of a benevolent Mephistopheles.

"The variety of man, madam," he said sententiously, "makes no manner ofdifference. It is the tumult in Miss Marna's soul which I hope we shallbe able to utilize"--he interrupted himself with a smile and a bow as heopened the door for his departing friend--"for the purposes of art."

Mrs. Barsaloux sat in the middle of her taxi seat all the way home, andsaw neither street, edifice, nor human being. She was looking back intoher own busy, confused, and frustrated life, and was remembering certainthings which she had believed were buried deep. Her heart misgave herhorribly. Yet to hand over this bright singing bird, so exquisite, sorare, so fitted for purposes of exposition, to the keeping of a meremale being of unfortunate contiguity, to permit him to carry her intothe seclusion of an ordinary home to wait on him and regulate her lifeaccording to his whim, was really too fantastic for consideration. Soshe put her memories and her tendernesses out of sight and walked upthe stairs with purpose in her tread.

* * * * *

She meant to "have it out" with the girl, who was, she believed,reasonable enough after all.

"She's been without her mother for so long," she mused, "that it's nowonder she's lacking in self-control. I must have the firmness that amother would have toward her. It would be the height of cruelty to lether have her own way in this."

If the two could have met at that moment, it would have changed thecourse of both their lives. But a trifle had intervened. Marna Cartanhad gone walking; and she never came back. Only, the next day, radiantlybeautiful, with fresh flowers in her hands, Marna Fitzgerald camerunning in begging to be forgiven. She tried to carry the situation withher impetuosity. She was laughing, crying, pleading. She got close toher old friend as if she would enwrap her in her influence. She had theveritable aspect of the bride. Whatever others might think regarding herlost career, it was evident that she believed the great hour had juststruck for her. Her husband was with her.

"Haven't you any apology to make, sir?" poor Mrs. Barsaloux cried tohim. He looked matter-of-fact, she thought, and as if he ought to beable to take a reasonable view of things. But she had misjudged. Perhapsit was his plain, everyday, commercial garments which deceived her andmade her think him open to week-day arguments; for at that moment hewas really a knight of romance, and at Mrs. Barsaloux's question hiseyes gleamed with unsuspected fires.

"Who could be so foolish as to apologize for happiness like ours?" hedemanded.

"Aren't you going to forgive us, dear?" pleaded Marna.

But Mrs. Barsaloux couldn't quite stand that.

"You sound like an old English comedy, Marna," she said impatiently."You're of age; I'm no relation to you; you've a perfect right to bemarried. Better take advantage of being here to pack your things. You'llneed them."

"You mean that I'm not expected to come here again, _tante_?"

"I shall sail for France in a week," said Mrs. Barsaloux wearily.

"For France, _tante_? When did you decide?"

"This minute," said the lady, and gave the married lovers to understandthat the interview was at an end.

Marna went weeping down the street, holding on to her George's arm.

"If she'd been Irish, she'd have cursed me," she sobbed, "and then I'dhave had something to go on, so to speak. Perhaps I could have got herto take it off me in time. But what are you going to do with a snubbinglike that?"

"Oh, leave it for the Arctic explorers to explain. They're used tobeing in below-zero temperature," George said with a troubled laugh."I'm sure I can't waste any time thinking about a woman who could standout against you, Marna, the way you are this day, and the wayyou're looking."

"But, George, she thinks I'm a monster."

"Then there's something wrong with her zoology. You're an--"

"Don't call me an angel, dear, whatever you do! There are some things Ihate to be called--they're so insipid. If any one called me an angel I'dknow he didn't appreciate me. Come, let's go to Kate's. She's my courtof last appeal. If Kate can't forgive me, I'll know I've done wrong."

* * * * *

Kate was never to forget that night. She had come in from a day ofdifficult and sordid work. For once, the purpose back of all her toilamong the people there in the great mill town was lost sight of in thesheer repulsiveness of the tasks she had had to perform. The pathos oftheir temptations, the terrific disadvantages under which they labored,their gray tragedies, had some way lost their import. She was merely adreadfully fagged woman, disgusted with evil, with dirt and poverty. Shewas at outs with her world and impatient with the suffering involved inthe mere living of life.

Moreover, when she had come into the house, she had found it dark asusual. The furnace was down, and her own room was cold. But she had sether teeth together, determined not to give way to depression, and hadmade her rather severe toilet for dinner when word was brought to her bythe children's nurse that Dr. and Mrs. Fitzgerald desired to see her.For a moment she could not comprehend what that might mean; then thetruth assailed her, took her by the hand, and ran her down the stairsinto Mama's arms.

"It's glorious," retorted Marna. "And if I ever was going to be willful,now's the time."

"Right you are," broke in George. "What does Stevenson say about that?'Youth is the time to be up and doing.' You're not going to be severewith us, Miss Barrington? We've been counting on you."

"Have you?" inquired Kate, putting Marna aside and taking her husband bythe hand. "Well, you are your own justification, you two. But haven'tyou been ungrateful?"

Marna startled her by a bit of Dionysian philosophy.

"Is it ungrateful to be happy?" she demanded. "Would anybody have beenin the right who asked us to be unhappy? Why don't you call us brave? Doyou imagine it isn't difficult to have people we love disapproving ofus? But you know yourself, Kate, if we'd waited forty-eight hours, I'dhave been dragged off to live with my career."

She laughed brightly, sinking back in her chair and throwing wide hercoat. Kate looked at her appraisingly, and warmed in the doing of it.

He didn't say he was sorry Marna had to slave with her little whitehands, or that he realized that he was doing a bold--perhaps animpious--thing in snatching a woman from her service to art to go intoservice for him. Evidently he didn't think that way. Neither minded anysacrifice apparently. The whole of it was, they were together. Suddenly,they seemed to forget Kate. They stood gazing at each other as if theirsense of possession overwhelmed them. Kate felt something like angryresentment stir in her. How dared they, when she was so alone, so weary,so homeless?

"Will you stay to dinner with me?" she asked with something likeasperity.

"To dinner?" they murmured in vague chorus. "No, thanks."

"But where do you intend to have dinner?"

"We--we haven't thought," confessed Marna.

"Oh, anywhere," declared Fitzgerald.

Marna rose and her husband buttoned her coat about her.

They smiled at Kate seraphically, and she saw that they wanted to bealone, and that it made little difference to them whether they weresitting in a warm room or walking the windy streets. She kissed themboth, with tears, and said:--

"God bless you."

That seemed to be what they wanted. They longed to be blessed.

"That's what Aunt Dennison said," smiled Fitzgerald.

Then Kate realized that now the exotic Marna would be calling thecompletely domesticated Mrs. Dennison "aunt." But Marna looked as if sheliked that, too. It was their hour for liking everything. As Kate openedthe outer door for them, the blast struck through her, but the lovers,laughing, ran down the stairs together. They were, in their way,outcasts; they were poor; the future might hold bitter disillusion. Butnow, borne by the sharp wind, their laughter drifted back like a song.

Kate wrapped her old coat about her and made her solitary way to Mrs.Dennison's depressed Caravansary.

XII

There was no question about it. Life was supplying Kate Barrington witha valuable amount of "data." On every hand the emergent or thereactionary woman offered herself for observation, although to say thatKate was able to take a detached and objective view of it would be goingaltogether too far. The truth was, she threw herself into every friend'strouble, and she counted as friends all who turned to her, or all whomshe was called upon to serve.

A fortnight after Mama's marriage, an interesting episode came Kate'sway. Mrs. Barsaloux had introduced to the Caravansary a Mrs. Leger whomshe had once met on the steamer on her way to Brindisi, and she hadinvited her to join her during a stay in Chicago. Mrs. Barsaloux,however, having gone off to France in a hot fit of indignation, Mrs.Leger presented herself with a letter from Mrs. Barsaloux to Mrs.Dennison. That hospitable woman consented to take in the somewhatenigmatic stranger.

That she was enigmatic all were quick to perceive. She was beautiful,with a delicate, high-bred grace, and she had the manner of a woman whohad been courted and flattered. As consciously beautiful as MaryMorrison, she bore herself with more discretion. Taste governed allthat she said and did. Her gowns, her jewels, her speech weredistinguished. She seemed by all tokens an accomplished worldling; yetit was not long before Kate discovered that it was anything but worldlymatters which were consuming her attention.

She had come to Chicago for the purpose of adjusting her fortune,--alarge one, it appeared,--and of concluding her relations with the world.She had decided to go into a convent, and had chosen one of thosenumerous sisterhoods which pass their devotional days upon the brighthill-slopes without Naples. She refrained from designating theparticular sisterhood, and she permitted no discussion of her motives.She only said that she had not been born a Catholic, but had turned toMother Church when the other details of life ceased to interest her. Shewas a widow, but she seemed to regard her estate with quiet regretmerely. If tragedy had entered her life, it must have been subsequent towidowhood. She had a son, but it appeared that he had no great need ofher. He was in the care of his paternal grandparents, who were givinghim an education. He was soon to enter Oxford, and she felt confidentthat his life would be happy. She was leaving him an abundance; she hadhalved her fortune and was giving her share to the convent.

If she had not been so exquisite, so skilled in the nuances of life, soswift and elusive in conversation, so well fitted for the finest formsof enjoyment, her renunciation of liberty would not have proved soexasperating to Kate. A youthful enthusiasm for religion might have madeher step understandable. But enthusiasm and she seemed far apart.Intelligent as she unquestionably was, she nevertheless seemed to havegiven herself over supinely to a current of emotions which was sweepingher along. She looked both pious and piteous, for all of hersophisticated manner and her accomplishments and graces, and Kate feltlike throwing a rope to her. But Mrs. Leger was not in a mood to seizethe rope. She had her curiously gentle mind quite made up. Though shewas still young,--not quite eighteen years older than her son,--sheappeared to have no further concern for life. To the last, she wasindulging in her delicate vanities--wore her pearls, walked in charmingfoot-gear, trailed after her the fascinating gowns of the initiate, andviewed with delight the portfolios of etchings which Dr. von Shierbrandchanced to be purchasing.

She was glad, she said, to be at the Caravansary, quite on a differentside of the city from her friends. She made no attempt to renew oldacquaintances or to say farewell to her former associates. Herextravagant home on the Lake Shore Drive was passed over to aself-congratulatory purchaser; the furnishings were sold at auction; andher other properties were disposed of in such a manner as to make thetransfer of her wealth convenient for the recipients.

She asked Kate to go to the station with her.

"I've given you my one last friendship," she said. "I shall speak withno one on the steamer. My journey must be spent in preparation for mygreat change. But it seems human and warm to have you see me off."

"It seems inhuman to me, Mrs. Leger," Kate cried explosively. "Somethingterrible has happened to you, I suppose, and you're hiding away from it.You think you're going to drug yourself with prayer. But can you? Itdoesn't seem at all probable to me. Dear Mrs. Leger, be brave and stayout in the world with the other living people."

"You are talking of something which you do not understand," said Mrs.Leger gently. "There is a secret manna for the soul of which thechosen may eat."

"Oh!" cried Kate, almost angrily. "Are these your own words? I cannotunderstand a prepossession like this on your part. It doesn't seem toset well on you. Isn't there some hideous mistake? Aren't you under theinfluence of some emotional episode? Might it not be that you were illwithout realizing it? Perhaps you are suffering from some hiddenmelancholy, and it is impelling you to do something out of keeping withthe time and with your own disposition."

"I can see how it might appear that way to you, Miss Barrington. But Iam not ill, except in my soul, which I expect to be healed in the placeto which I am going. Try to understand that among the many kinds ofhuman beings in this world there are the mystics. They have a right totheir being and to their belief. Their joys and sorrows are differentfrom those of others, but they are just as existent. Please do not worryabout me."

"But you understand so well how to handle the material things in theworld," protested Kate. "You seem so appreciative and so competent. Ifyou have learned so much, what is the sense of shutting it all up ina cell?"

"Did you never read of Purun Bhagat," asked Mrs. Leger smilingly, "whowas rich with the riches of a king; who was wise with the learning ofCalcutta and of Oxford; who could have held as high an office as anythat the Government of England could have given him in India, and whotook his beggar's bowl and sat upon a cavern's rim and contemplated thesecret soul of things? You know your Kipling. I have not such riches orsuch wisdom, but I have the longing upon me to go into silence."

The lips from which these words fell were both tender and ardent; thelittle gesticulating hands were clad in modish, mouse-colored suede;orris root mixed with some faint, haunting odor, barely caressed the airwith perfume. Kate looked at her companion in despair.

"I must be an outer barbarian!" she cried. "I can imagine religiousecstasy, but you are not ecstatic. I can imagine turning to a convent asa place of hiding from shame or despair. But you are not going into itthat way. As for wishing to worship, I understand that perfectly. Prayeris a sort of instinct with me, and all the reasoning in the worldcouldn't make me cast myself out of communion with the unknown somethingroundabout me that seems to answer me. But what you are doing seems, asI said, so obsolete."

"I am looking forward to it," said Mrs. Leger, "as eagerly as a girllooks forward to her marriage. It is a beautiful romance to me. It isthe completely beautiful thing that is going to make up to me for allthe ugliness I have encountered in life."

For the first time a look of passion disturbed the serenity of thehigh-bred, conventional face.

Kate threw out her hands with a repudiating gesture.

"Well," she said, "in the midst of my freedom I shall think of you oftenand wonder if you have found something that I have missed. You areleaving the world, and books, and friends, and your son for some palewhite idea. It seems to me you are going to the embrace of a wraith."

Mrs. Leger smiled slowly, and it was as if a lamp showed for a moment ina darkened house and then mysteriously vanished.

"Believe me," she reiterated, "you do not understand."

Kate helped her on the train, and left her surrounded by her fashionablebags, her flowers, fruit, and literature. She took these things as amatter of course. She had looked at her smart little boots as sheadjusted them on a hassock and had smiled at Kate almost teasingly.

"In a month," she said, "I shall be walking with bared feet, or, if theweather demands, in sandals. I shall wear a rope about my waist over mybrown robe. My hair will be cut, my head coiffed. When you are thinkingof me, think of me as I really shall be."

"So many things are going to happen that you will not see!" cried Kate."Why, maybe in a little while we shall all be going up inflying-machines! You wouldn't like to miss that, would you? Or your sonwill be growing into a fine man and you'll not see him--nor the woman hemarries--nor his children." She stopped, breathing hard.

"It is like the sound of the surf on a distant shore," smiled Mrs.Leger. "Good-bye, Miss Barrington. Don't grieve about me. I shall behappier than you can know or dream."

The conductor swung Kate off the train after it was in motion.

* * * * *

So, among other things, she had that to think of. She could explain itall merely upon the hypothesis that the sound of the awakeningtrumpets--the trumpets which were arousing woman from her longtorpor--had not reached the place where this wistful woman dwelt, withher tender remorses, her delicate aversions, her hunger for theindefinite consolations of religion.

Moreover, she was beginning to understand that not all women werematernal. She had, indeed, come across many incidents in her work whichemphasized this. Good mothers were quite as rare as good fathers; and itwas her growing belief that more than half of the parents in the worldwere undeserving of the children born to them. Also, she realized that achild might be born of the body and not of the spirit, and a mothermight minister well to a child's corporeal part without once ministeringto its soul. It was possible that there never had been any bond save aphysical one between Mrs. Leger and her son. Perhaps they looked at eachother with strange, uncomprehending eyes. That, she could imagine, wouldbe a tantalization from which a sensitive woman might well wish toescape. It was within the realm of possibility that he was happier withhis grandmother than with his mother. There might be temperamental aswell as physical "throwbacks."

Kate remembered a scene she once had witnessed at a railway station. Twomeagre, hard-faced, work-worn women were superintending the removal of apine-covered coffin from one train to another, and as the grim box waswheeled the length of a long platform, a little boy, wild-eyed,gold-haired, and set apart from all the throng by a tragic misery, ranafter the truck calling in anguish:--